My Wife Of 26 Years Framed Me To Die In Prison. I Found Her Secret Stash In Our Basement And Realized She’s Working With A Serial Conman. Now, I’m Planning A Date Night She’ll Never Forget. How Should I Execute My Revenge?

Then Susan Mitchell would appear on Zoom, her confession. Then Susan Prescott, same.

Then Marlo. She’d show Damian’s video, tell her story.

Then me. I’d show the emails, the recordings, the pattern.

And then we’d wait. Wait for the world to see.

Wait for the police to show up. Wait for Damian to realize he’d lost.

Marlo’s hands shook as she held her notes.

“What if I freeze? What if I can’t do it?”

“Oh, you will,”

Sloan said firmly.

“Because you’re stronger than you think. And because your father’s sitting right next to you.”

I reached over, squeezed Marlo’s hand.

“We’re in this together. All the way.”

She nodded, wiped her eyes.

“Okay. Let’s do it.”

Sunday evening, 7:30 p.m. Margot’s car pulled into the driveway.

I watched from the window. Silas and Sloan were hidden in the guest bedroom.

Vernon was in the basement monitoring the camera feeds. Marlo was upstairs waiting for her cue.

Margot walked up the steps, unlocked the door, stepped inside. She looked happy, relaxed.

Like she was looking forward to a nice dinner with her husband. I felt like I was going to throw up.

“Hey,”

I said, forced a smile.

“Ready for dinner? Let me just change quick.”

She kissed my cheek, headed upstairs. I stood there, listening to her footsteps overhead.

Listening to her hum some recognizable tune. My phone buzzed.

Text from Silas in the guest room: “Cameras live. 4,200 viewers waiting.” 4,000 people waiting to watch my life implode.

7:50 p.m. Margot came downstairs wearing a blue dress.

Her favorite. The one I’d bought her for our anniversary three years ago.

She smiled.

“How do I look?”

“Beautiful,”

I said. And I meant it.

Even now, even knowing everything, she was still beautiful.

“Uh, so where are we going?”

She asked. I took a breath.

“Margot, before we go, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

Her smile faltered just slightly.

“What is it?”

“Sit down. This might take a while.”

She frowned, confused, but she sat on the couch. Right in front of camera one.

Exactly where we needed her. Behind her, through the window, I could see Vernon’s truck parked down the street.

Backup, just in case. I sat in the armchair across from her.

The same spot I’d sat a thousand times. Family game nights, movie marathons, normal life.

But this wasn’t normal life anymore. My phone was in my pocket.

Silas would be watching the feed, waiting for my signal. I looked at Margot.

At the woman I’d loved for 26 years. The woman who’d been planning my destruction for the last seven months.

“Margot,”

I said slowly.

“We need to talk about Damian.”

Her face went white. And somewhere in the guest bedroom, Silas clicked a button.

We were live. 8:00 p.m. exactly.

Somewhere upstairs, Silas clicked a button and just like that, we were broadcasting to 5,000 strangers. 5,000 people watching me sit across from my wife in our living room.

Watching the TV behind me flicker to life. Watching the title slide appear in big white letters: “The Truth About Damian Cross.”

Margot stared at the screen, then at me.

“Graham, what is this?”

I kept my voice calm, even. Like we were discussing dinner plans.

“Either Margot, I know everything. I know about you and Damian. I know about the plan to frame me.”

Her face… God, her face went from confused to pale to panicked in about three seconds. She stood up fast.

Too fast.

“This is ridiculous.”

“Sit down.”

Something in my voice made her freeze.

“Sit down,”

She said. But her eyes were darting around the room now.

Looking for something. An escape route, maybe.

That’s when she saw it. The tiny camera lens mounted on the bookshelf.

Then another one on top of the TV.

“Are you… are you recording this?”

“We’re not recording.”

I gestured to the laptop Silas had set up on the side table. The screen showed a live comment feed, messages pouring in.

“What’s happening?” “Who is Damian Cross?” “Is this real?”

“We’re live. 5,000 people are watching right now.”

Her eyes went huge.

“You’re insane.”

She started toward the camera.

“Turn it off! Turn it off right now!”

Vernon stepped out from the kitchen, blocked her path. Arms crossed, just standing there.

She looked at him. At me.

At the cameras. At the laptop screen where the viewer count had just jumped to 5,800.

“You can’t do this,”

She said, voice shaking now.

“This is illegal. This is…”

“It’s the truth.”

I picked up the remote, clicked to the next slide. A photo filled the TV screen, crystal clear.

Damian and Margot in our basement. Him holding a camera, her standing next to him pointing at something off-screen.

Both of them smiling. The timestamp: February 3rd, 2025, 8:30 a.m.

The day Griffin saw them planting evidence.

“Explain this, Margot.”

She stared at the screen. Her mouth opened, closed, opened again.

“That’s not… you don’t understand.”

“She then helped me understand.”

I leaned forward.

“Help these 6,000 people understand why you were in our basement with Damian Cross planting evidence to frame me for embezzlement.”

The viewer count was climbing. 6,200 now.

Comments flying past faster than I could read them. “OMG is this real?” “Someone call the police.” “This is insane.” “Who is Damian Cross?” “Is that his wife?”

Margot’s voice cracked.

“Graham, please turn it off. We can talk about this privately.”

“So we’re done talking privately. We’re done with secrets.”

I clicked the remote again. Next slide: an email from Margot to Damian.

August 15th. “I’m tired of him. Let’s do this.”

“Read it,”

I said out loud.

“Tell everyone what you wrote.”

She shook her head, tears starting now.

“I can’t.”

“You can. Because you wrote it. You planned this.”